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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29969793">seeing through the storm</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthpumpkinspice/pseuds/darthpumpkinspice'>darthpumpkinspice</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>bright shadows under the sun [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon Cardassia, Romulans, Vorta and Jem’Hadar culture, recovering Cardassia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 03:01:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,946</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29969793</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthpumpkinspice/pseuds/darthpumpkinspice</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Alpha Quadrant slowly recovers in the aftermath of the Dominion War, and on Cardassia, Damar, Weyoun, and Ezri work to uncover a Romulan conspiracy that threatens to destabilize the fragile peace. Meanwhile, the arrival of a Founder brings its own set of dangers.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Damar &amp; Ezri Dax, Damar/Weyoun (Star Trek), Ezri Dax &amp; Weyoun, Ezri Dax/Kira Nerys, Kilana &amp; Weyoun (Star Trek)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>bright shadows under the sun [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2189757</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>we'll be jumping off right where we left off - but first, an interlude with Kilana!!</p><p>I would ALSO be remiss not to thank IcyKali for their help beta reading this chapter and assisting me in coming up with the title (and by assisting, I mean they thought it up and I proceeded to steal in it's entirety!) i appreciate it!!! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Kilana dreams, as defective Vorta are known to do. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She dreams of her birth – for although she has never been a child, the first activation is a birth of sorts, is it not? She was born fully-grown, made to order: the bulk of her genome borrowed from an earlier, successful line of clones, modified as needed by DNA samples from the Vorta’s vast genetic libraries in the hopes of making her cleverer and more physically appealing than her template. Every double helix strand thoroughly checked and double-checked to ensure her lineage’s compliance with their strict standards – a rather dull process that involves weeks of combing through genetic data – and then the approval was given, and that code was realized into flesh and blood. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Her dreams mingle with memories and in them the fleshy membrane of her cloning vat contracts and throbs around her like a breathing lung, and then there is a silver flash as a scalpel slices through the surface of the amniotic sac. There are pale, reaching hands grabbing at her body – their touch firm and impersonal – and she is dragged out into the light. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>(This she should not remember at all. These formative memories – these first few hours of life – are not intended to be consciously accessible. They are meant to exist only in the recesses of a Vorta’s subconscious, subtly informing their personality.)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She remembers how the gel had clung to her skin, quickly cooling in the recycled air, and she remembers shivering weakly as the new muscles in her arms struggled to pull themselves in to hug her chest. In the dream, as in her memories, she tries to blink away the harsh lights that assault her eyes. Her eyes are feeble things and she strains to make out her surroundings. She wipes away lingering fluid from her face and waits for her vision to clear. It never does – it never will.</em>
</p><p><em>She huddles on the ground, and the pale, reaching hands stretch out to her again, revealing themselves to be attached to equally pale people. Violet eyes gleam at her from their faces, bright and terrifying. She knows them: information comes to her in bursts as neural pathways and delicate connections are jolted into activity, stimulating pre-programmed knowledge installed during her embryonic development. Awareness sweeps over her like an electric current: they are </em>Vorta<em>, as she is. The word floats in her mind, at once familiar and foreign. </em></p><p>
  <em>She finds herself looking past the Vorta, and in the back of the room there is a being that her mind whispers is her god. Their skin glistens liquid-like, rippling with color like sunlight over water (she has no reference points for these thoughts, but they come to her nevertheless, language supplied by developmental conditioning). </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She continues to stare at her god and two thoughts come to her simultaneously, each one heavy with nascent sin.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She does not love them. And she thinks they are very beautiful.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Both of these thoughts are wrong. She will realize this later. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The Vorta are prodding her again with those pale hands. “Do you know who you are?” they ask. The sound of the question is loud and sharp, and she flinches back, her ears throbbing. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Her tongue scrapes over the roof of her mouth as she tries to quickly teach herself how to use it. “No.” Her voice comes out strangled and raw, and her throat vibrates unpleasantly as she speaks. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Good,” they say, and then they part as the Founder glides forward, retreating from their god like the sea receding before an incoming tsunami.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>God gazes down at her with eyes of glass. Their lips do not move as they speak. “Would you like a name?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She is freshly-born, newly-made, but they have designed her to be clever so she deduces that this is a test. They have also designed her to be adaptable, so she answers in the way she realizes she is supposed to. “Only if it pleases you.” It is too many words so soon after birth, and her throat aches from the exertion of it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The god seems bored, and understanding crests over her emergent awareness: this is a ritual they have performed countless times. “You are Kilana.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And so she is. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She is startled awake by a rough hand jerking on her shoulder, and she knows even before she opens her eyes that said hand must belong to Sinan’Kara. None of the other Jem’Hadar would risk incurring the wrath of a Vorta by placing their hands upon her body, and the Founder they travel with would never lower themselves to interact with her in such a primitive way as through physical contact.</p><p>She keeps her eyes closed for a moment longer, to spite Sinan’Kara for this rude awakening, and then slowly lets them drift open. As she had guessed, her First looms above her, his massive bulk obscuring the ship’s overhead fluorescents and casting her in shadow. He is an eclipse of light, as fearsome as a celestial event, and before him she feels as small and impotent as interplanetary dust. Through no fault of his own, he has always frightened her – all Jem’Hadar trigger ancestral, prey-memories in the base areas of the Vorta’s brains, and those instincts breathlessly remind her that he could snap her neck with just his thumb and forefinger, if he so desired it. Of course, if <em>she </em>so ordained his death, he would die as well – he could do nothing to stop it. Their lives are at each other’s mercies; their lives do not belong to them – they belong exclusively to the Founders. This is a lesson that rarely has to be taught. But if it does, it is never forgotten.</p><p>Sinan’Kara peers down at her. His brutish face is seemingly as impassive as ever, but the White at his neck pumps faster through its tube, mirroring the pulse of his blood. He is nervous.</p><p>“You woke me,” she says mildly. She could harden her voice and turn the statement into a reprimand, but she decides against it. “Why?”</p><p>He scowls reflexively, as he often does when he is thinking. “You were twitching in your sleep,” he says. He leans forward, and attempts to modulate his harsh voice into a hushed tone. It is unsuccessful, and it comes out sounding even more gravely than before. “I thought you might have been dreaming again. I did not think you would’ve wanted the Founder to see.”</p><p>A thoughtful gesture, if a redundant one – her defectiveness is already a matter of public record. She stifles a yawn and straightens in her flight seat, glancing over Sinan’Kara’s shoulder to look at her god. God has selected a separate corner for themselves, away from the small contingent of Jem’Hadar troops that have been authorized to accompany them (barely an honor guard, a disappointing sign of the Cardassian’s obnoxiously persistent mistrust). They are currently cycling through alien shapes, perhaps in preparation for their meeting with Legate Kell – their neck swells with ridged protrusions, and their smooth skin indents with the impression of gray scales.     </p><p>She turns back to Sinan’Kara. “The Founder is otherwise occupied.”</p><p>His scowl deepens, and the pulse of White quickens again. Idly, Kilana wonders if it is frustrating for him to have that permanent tell affixed to his body – for her, such a thing would be debilitating. Her life is a careful, constant dance of subterfuge and precisely applied manipulation – she would not survive having such an easily accessible sign of her emotional state exposed for all to see. But she supposes the Jem’Hadar would not need to concern themselves with such matters. Their duties have a ruthless honesty – there is no deception in the knife slitting a throat, no falsehood in the phaser turning a heart to carbonized ash.</p><p>“What did you dream about?” he asks her.</p><p>The question does not bother her in and of itself – he has asked it before, and she has answered him readily enough. But this time – her dream still near enough that she can almost feel the doctors’ hands upon her flesh – she is discomforted by it. She smiles on instinct. “Curious, Sinan’Kara?” Her tone is sultry, flirtatious. It is not intentional – it is simply her default state, hardwired into her automatic responses.</p><p>He glowers down at her with the flat, cold eyes of a Terran shark. She does not take it personally. This is his nature, also. “Yes.”</p><p>Kilana glances to the Founder again, who is now practicing a Vorta form – one eerily reminiscent of Weyoun, except with softer, narrower features and a more pronounced chest. Their eyes are closed and they seem absorbed in their task, but there is no way to know for sure. “Perhaps later,” she tells her First. “Rejoin your men.”</p><p>He obeys her dutifully enough, falling back into the formation of his soldiers with mechanical precision, and she lets her gaze linger on him for a moment before refocusing on the Founder. Their skin undulates as they flow seamlessly into a nude Orion body, and then that of a Starfleet admiral – their torso resplendent with golden medals.         </p><p>She stares at the Founder for a while longer. She has always been fascinated with shapeshifting. If <em>she </em>had that talent at her disposal, that effortless power to become anyone… a lover, an enemy, a trusted mentor…. Well. It doesn’t do to reflect on impossibilities. She suppresses her envy and turns to the porthole to look at the space beyond. Her eyes cannot make out much beyond the transparent pane, only the faintest impression of starlight that manifests to her as grayish smudges streaking over blackness. She squints as if that will magically sharpen her vision, and then gives up with a resigned sigh, letting her eyes close as she listens instead. Her eyes may be ineffective, clouded things, but her ears have never failed her. The ship sings to her, murmuring its secrets – she hears the wheeze of air vents, the soft electrical buzz of buried circuitry and the overhead lights, the faint beeping of the navigational array, and the rumbling purr of the engines nestled in the core of the ship. As she listens, that rumbling gradually becomes more muted as their ship slows and they close in on their destination.</p><p>They’re almost at Cardassia – it will not be long now before they arrive at that bleak city of colorless cement streets and jagged, ugly towers. Cardassian architecture has always disappointed her. For all of their preening and bluster about the skill of their engineers and artisans, their designs have always gravitated towards an ostentatious uniformity that she has never found particularly exciting. She might’ve protested this assignment if not for the promise of seeing Weyoun again. It will be good to see him in person – even if she suspects he’ll be dragging that surly Cardassian of his around for any get-together she initiates. She’s curious what Weyoun sees in him; he’s handsome enough, she supposes, but only if one can ignore the stench of misery that hangs off of him like a perfume. It vexes her that the Legate still dislikes her. Her efforts to prod at his stony exterior – to find some chink where she can slip herself in and ingratiate herself to him – have so far all been in vain. Her usual methods – bribery, flattery, appeals to duty, have all been unsuccessful, and even her attempt to entice him with honesty in her revelation about her defectiveness was… unproductive. But she can be patient. Kira Nerys despised her for almost a full year, and now they maintain an ongoing game of virtual <em>klin zha</em>.</p><p>Perhaps it is simply time to rethink her strategy entirely. She could consult Weyoun and ask for his advice on the subject – although she doubts his particular approach towards Damar would be especially applicable to her. She lets her thoughts turn to Weyoun again – cunning, cruel, joyous Weyoun. They have shared in the most intimate moments of existence together – death and rebirth, and a lonely, yearning part of her has missed him dearly. He had been there when she died in her first life – ordered to trigger her termination implant to prove some semblance of worth despite her defectiveness. Of her two deaths it had been the most traumatic – she had bitten through her tongue in an attempt to stymie the spasms wracking her body, and she had swallowed down the pooling blood before it could leak out of her mouth and expose her pain to Weyoun. She had no reason to believe the Founders would keep their word and clone her again, and she had not wanted him to remember her as a soft, defective creature, ruled by her agony in her last moments. She still has nightmares of thick, choking warmth sliding down the inside of her throat.</p><p>In turn, she had been present when he had been activated in his fifth iteration and his ninth. He had been perfectly composed on his fifth activation, but he had been distressed on his ninth – and that listless despair had persisted until he had learned of Damar’s survival. He had all but begged for the Cardassia assignment – needlessly so, as there had been no competition for it. He had been the only Vorta that had <em>volunteered </em>for a mission to the Alpha Quadrant since the peace treaty was signed. His formal request had included a justification about how <em>appropriate </em>it would be for him to be the one to go, because <em>surely</em> if a <em>Weyoun –</em> with all of his line’s complicated history on Cardassia - could help mend the rift between the Dominion and the Union, then they would know that the peace was secure. Such a clever little rationale, all wrapped up neatly in the veneer of <em>duty</em>. He had insisted this explanation was the truth, when she had confronted him about it directly, but he was her <em>zhimata</em> and she knew him better than that, but she had not called him out on the lie. She did not begrudge him for it – she knows from experience how comforting it can be to take refuge in a lie.  </p><p>The Founder’s body makes a wet, slurping noise as they slip through another series of shapes. They arrive at a Klingon form, but even as she watches their frame shrinks upon itself and their skin goes smooth and Vorta-pale. A curl of dread slithers inside of her belly and she realizes - although she does not know why - that she is afraid for Weyoun.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm not expecting to have too many non-Damar POV's, but this one was a blast to write. I hope you all enjoy!! i'd love to hear ya'll's thoughts, and if you like this, leave a kudo! :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>featuring Kilana, Ezri, Trill new year, and a little bit of NSFW content! </p><p>also if you're wondering why Trill new year sounds awfully similar to Yom Kippur, that is because I 100% borrowed from that holiday in my endless quest to make Star Trek more Jewish as well as more gay</p><p>and again, all Domionese conlang credit goes to Howelle-heir’s amazing blog!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sweat beads along Weyoun’s skin, coating his already too-smooth flesh in a slippery sheen, and Damar’s hands tighten around his waist to hold him steady as he snaps his hips up, driving his cock deeper into him. Damar’s splayed fingers dig into pliant flesh as he continues to thrust; underneath them, purple bruises are already forming, joining in the pattern that trails down to Weyoun’s thighs. The sight is gratifying on a primal level, and Damar finds himself unable to tear his gaze away. His mouth goes dry, and his movements falter. Weyoun does not abide this for long. He grinds down pointedly on Damar’s cock, and makes a small show of gasping. A distressingly logical voice in the back of Damar’s mind unhelpfully informs him that Weyoun is likely exaggerating his pleasure for a reaction, but the picture painted for him – Weyoun moaning wantonly as he writhes on Damar’s cock – sends a shock of arousal through him, strong enough to override all errant thoughts.</p><p>He redoubles his efforts, fucking up into the Vorta and straining against the impending build of his own release. <em> Not just yet.</em> “Touch yourself,” he pants.</p><p>Weyoun places one hand against Damar’s chest to steady himself as the other slips down to the cock bobbing between his legs, and he begins to stroke himself even as he rocks his hips back to meet Damar’s thrusts. His groans become deeper, more genuine, and he leans back slightly, catching an arc of sunshine slanting in from the window. His large eyes capture the light, soaking it up until they are luminous, and the sight of this, the totality of it – of his cock sinking in and out of Weyoun as he fucks vigorously into his own hand, peering down at Damar with eyes as bright as binary stars – is what shatters what remains of Damar’s already depleted restraint. His orgasm crashes over him, and he finishes with a strangled cry, and then Weyoun’s hand on his chest is pressing him back into the mattress as the Vorta continues to ride him. It is almost too much stimulation so soon after cumming, and the sensation straddles the razor-line between pleasure and pain. He moans involuntarily as Weyoun, now reaching his own release, clenches almost agonizingly tight around him, the inside of his body a white-hot vise around his cock.</p><p><em> Finally </em> Weyoun goes limp over him, and Damar moves his hands under the Vorta’s thighs, hoisting him up and off him. Damar’s cock slips out, dripping with ejaculate, and Weyoun collapses bonelessly beside him. The Vorta nuzzles against him, his deft fingers playing over the pattern of ridged scales along his chest, and Damar savors the moment while it lasts. He closes his eyes as he basks in the excess heat bleeding off of Weyoun. His skin grows warm from it, and it is almost as if he is soaking up a part of the Vorta, bringing some of him into himself, and perhaps he is still addled by endorphins and oxytocin, but at the moment that notion strikes him as almost dizzyingly romantic.</p><p>He opens his eyes, suddenly desperate to look at Weyoun again, and the Vorta seems to read his mind, blinking up at him. His violet eyes are still alight with a reflective glow, as if he has stolen some of the fire from Cardassia’s sun and kept it for himself – much like the trinkets he collects. </p><p>“You are lovely to look at,” Damar blurts out.</p><p>Weyoun makes a soft, contented noise and offers a lazy smile. “That is very kind of you to say, Damar. I’ll make sure to pass along your compliments to our geneticists.” He props himself up on his forearms and gazes down at him, his eyes sparking with a dangerous quality Damar is entirely too familiar with – it’s the same barely repressed eagerness he’s observed Weyoun wear countless times during negotiations with foreign diplomats. It’s an unsubtle indicator that Weyoun <em> wants </em>something from him, and apprehension worms its way through Damar as he waits for the inevitable request. Weyoun doesn’t bother to keep him in suspense for long. “If you find me so appealing,” Weyoun coos, “Maybe you’d be amenable to doing me a favor?”</p><p>“What kind of favor?” Damar asks warily. In his mind’s eyes, an assortment of worst case scenarios burst into vivid, nightmarish existence. Two specific ones jostle for supremacy: he sees Weyoun at the bridge of one of his warships, commanding an assault against one of the lesser Klingon colonies; he imagines being forced to risk his adjunct’s wrath by asking to borrow her new PADD. The thoughts skip over the judgment centers in his brain to ping his amygdala directly, and the resultant flood of neurotransmitters is enough to cleanly cut through his post-coital drowsiness.</p><p>“Nothing as dramatic as whatever that creative imagination of yours has surely spun up,” Weyoun purrs, in a tone of voice that does absolutely nothing to set Damar at ease. “As you know, the transport from the Dominion arrived yesterday. Kilana has invited me to join her in her quarters, and I’d like you to accompany me.”  </p><p>Damar represses a groan. “She’s your…” he pauses, struggling over the strange phonetics of the unfamiliar word. “<em>Zhimata. </em>Whatever that means. Wouldn’t you rather see her yourself?”</p><p>“As I told you before,” Weyoun says, sighing impatiently. “It means <em> friend</em>. And I want you to be there.” A sly look creeps over his countenance. “If you join me for <em> this</em>, I’ll take part in that holo you once mentioned you liked, back on Terok Nor. The one with the Vulcan princess? I had a copy shipped in from Quark’s a few weeks ago. I <em> meant </em>for it to be a surprise, but….”   </p><p>Damar colors, heat blazing through his neck. If this is a strategy to unbalance him, it’s working. “<em>First</em>,” he argues, letting bluster act as a bulwark against his embarrassment. “If it really did <em> just </em> mean friend, then I’d hear it as <em> friend</em>. There must be some other meaning if the translators aren’t able to match it.” He hesitates, the flush of blood spreading until his ears are warm. “And <em> that </em>is extortion, Weyoun! When did you even find out about that program? I guarantee I would’ve remembered mentioning it to Weyoun 5.”</p><p>Weyoun doesn’t bother to affect more than a half-heartedly innocent expression. “Did you not? My mistake. Perhaps I oversaw it skimming through a psychographic report.” He grins at Damar’s indignant spluttering. “And it <em> does </em> mean friend. But I suppose it carries familial connotations as well. I think it might translate to <em> sibling </em> instead, if Vorta had such things.” He wriggles closer to Damar, positioning himself to breathe his next words into his ear. “We certainly don’t <em> have </em>to try out the program, if you’d rather not….” He trails off seductively, and Damar shivers despite himself.</p><p>“Fine,” he relents. He considers Weyoun’s earlier words – the specific language he’d used, and he smirks. “And if <em> zhimata </em> really does suggest a familial bond, I suppose I can’t say no to a visit with your <em> sister</em>.” It is Weyoun’s turn to gape at him and huff out a protest, and Damar laughs, delighted to finally get the upper hand – even if he’s still, ultimately, agreeing to do exactly what Weyoun wants. “You know how important family is to Cardassians, after all,” he teases.</p><hr/><p>The meeting with Kilana isn’t for another hour or two, so Weyoun suggests they stop by Ezri’s quarters while they wait.</p><p>“Happy New Year, Dax!” he exclaims when he sees her. He seems to have anticipated Damar’s bewilderment, for he adds over his shoulder, “<em>T</em><em>rill </em>new year, Damar. You really ought to familiarize yourself with their holidays at this point.”</p><p>Inside her apartment, Damar finds that the furniture in her living room has been moved, making space for a nest constructed from cushions and draped curtains – similar to the Vulcan meditation alcove in Weyoun’s quarters. It’s surrounded by a semi-circle of multi-colored candles – currently unlit, but the solidified dribbles of wax on the silver plates underneath suggests they are not purely decorative. </p><p>He risks a guess that the new decor is not simply an interior design choice selected on a whim. “This is for the New Year?” On Cardassia Prime, the New Year is a time of patriotic revelry and drunken celebration, heralded by an uptick in expansionist propaganda and an excessive amount of military parades. Under most of his previous Guls, it had mostly functioned as an excuse for them to take extra shore leave and hire out Orion strippers – or whatever alien race his commanding officer took a fancy to (Dukat had almost exclusively preferred Bajorans) – for the crew. He has a suspicion that it is a rather different sort of affair on the Trill homeworld.</p><p>Ezri’s eyes glint knowingly. “The Trill New Year,” she says, “Is a bit different than it is on Cardassia. It lasts a full week, and it’s intended to be a time of reflection and contemplation. At the end of it, we release ourselves from the sins of the previous year so we can move forward, unburdened, into the next.” She gives a guilty look. “It’s also a time of intermittent fasting,” she adds with a self-deprecating laugh. “I haven’t been as diligent about that tradition. It’s hard to meditate on an empty stomach!”  </p><p>She settles herself on one of the pillows on the ground, and with a grunt, Damar joins her. It’s much less comfortable than a chair would be, and the stiffness of his armor restricts his movements just enough to prevent ideal positioning. He’s not quite sure why he bothered to wear the armor at all; despite Kilana’s preexisting relationship with Weyoun, she doesn’t rank highly on the list of people he cares to impress, and the normal benefits the armor imparts – putting up a barrier between his personal identity and his job, separating him from the role of <em> Legate Damar </em> – are unlikely to be effective on a Vorta. </p><p>Weyoun lowers himself to the ground with an almost feline grace, situating himself close enough that Damar can taste the faint floral scent of the Vorta on the tip of his tongue when he inhales. For a second a tight knot of anxiety loops through his innards at being pressed this closely against him in the presence of another, outside the sanctuaries of their respective apartments. He shakes the intrusive, fearful thought away. This is <em> Ezri </em>– and although they have never directly discussed his relationship with Weyoun, she has known the truth of it for a long time. He forces himself to relax as much as he can in the confines of his armor, and tentatively, he lets his hand rest on Weyoun’s knee. It’s been too long since he’s been able to enjoy the pleasures of casual, intimate contact with a lover. He had taken such things for granted with his wife, back in the whirlwind of their initial courtship, and it was only once their relationship turned bitter and such gestures became things of that past that he realized how much he had missed them. Idly, he lets his thumb rub circles against the coarse fabric of Weyoun’s pants, and in return the Vorta shifts some of his weight to the side, tilting even closer towards him.      </p><p>“It’s about self-forgiveness, isn’t it, Dax?” Weyoun asks.</p><p>“It is not about forgiveness,” Ezri responds. She frowns, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth and drumming her finger on her thigh. “Seeking forgiveness is seen as a selfish goal. It’s more…” She pauses again, and her mouth twists as she tries to settle on the best way to express her thoughts. “It’s more about avoiding anchoring you to your guilt. There’s nothing helpful about… wallowing in self-blame.” Absently, she reaches out to one of the candles, and her nail carves out a small line in the softened wax. “This week is supposed to be a solemn one,” she explains, flicking away bits of green and yellow. “We meditate on the choices we’ve made, the things we could’ve done differently. And at the end of it, we’re supposed to leave behind our sins and keep the lessons they’ve taught us.”</p><p>The concept is a novel one. Damar has no frame of reference by which to compare this tradition – Cardassian holidays, as a rule, have always been steeped in military culture, and any messaging has been carefully ordained by the state. A <em>good </em>Cardassian obeys, and there is no sin in absolute obedience – no matter how distasteful or bloody your duties become. The Union absorbs all of the collective guilt of its loyal subjects, shouldering all unpleasantness, removing all need for such superfluous things as contemplation or self-reflection. The only <em>responsibility </em>of a Cardassian citizen is to be mindful of the laws and the chain of command that governs their existence. The only <em>sin </em>is to be rebellious – and <em>that </em>sin stains you for life – it will certainly not wash out once the New Year rolls around. These are the ugliest aspects of his culture, and he tries not to let his thoughts drift to the inevitable comparisons between them and the enforced servitude of the Dominion. He discovers – almost reluctantly – that he rather likes how these alien Trill customs sound.</p><p>Weyoun’s voice, snapping out “Damar!” cuts through the fog of his thoughts. Startled out of his reverie he looks up, and Weyoun squints at him, searching his face with a quizzical expression. “Dax asked you a question. Is something the matter?”</p><p>Damar scowls by way of answer – an instinctive response – and Weyoun glares back at him, vague concern transforming into simmering irritation. Damar stares at him for a moment, considering, and then he lets the hand still resting on Weyoun’s knee relax. It spits in the face of every persistent, petty impulse in his body (his nerves always seem to be primed for maximum spitefulness in all matters involving Weyoun) but he clamps down on the reflex to snatch his hand back, and instead squeezes gently – a quick apology. Perhaps misreading the apology as a sign of surrender, Weyoun grins smugly. It is a supremely grating expression, and he’s lucky Damar is feeling magnanimous enough to give him the win. </p><p>Damar turns back to Ezri. “I’m sorry, Ezri. You were saying?”</p><p>Her eyes go wide. “Nothing important!” she assures him, waving her hands around. One nail is still faintly flecked with wax, pairing rather amusingly with the now-chipping pink polish, and he snorts out a short laugh at the sight of it. Likely thinking the laughter is directed at her, Ezri’s cheeks turn the same color as her painted nails. “I was just asking what you thought about the shipment Kilana brought.”</p><p>“I’m not sure,” Damar admits. “I haven’t seen it yet. But… it seems promising.” He’ll give Kilana this much – like Kell, she makes good on her bribes. Two hundred orbital arrays are now sitting in Gilora Rejal’s engineering labs, awaiting inspection and assembly – nearly twice as many as he had requested.</p><p>Personally, Damar is still working to keep his expectations comfortably low. In the (admittedly unlikely) event of cataclysmic design failure, he’d prefer not to have glutted himself with anticipation in advance. In his experience, hope is an insidious emotion, and disappointment often trails in its wake. Ezri seems to have no such qualms. Her eyes shine, and for a foolish second he finds himself envying that unguarded enthusiasm. “Miska was <em> delighted </em>by them,” she whistles. “You should be thrilled! This seems like a real homerun for you.” Damar blinks at her, surprised by the metaphor, and she pauses. “Sorry, baseball reference. It’s a sport-”</p><p>“I know what baseball is,” he says, cutting her off. Frankly, he is surprised <em> she </em>knows about it too, but he supposes the Federation has always prided itself on its multi-culturalism.</p><p>His response has thrown her off-balance, and she tilts her head as if trying to recalibrate. “I suppose that makes sense,” she says slowly. “I imagine Dukat-”</p><p>“Why would Dukat know?” he asks impatiently. He feels somewhat guilty for interrupting a second time, but he plows onwards. “It’s a Vulcan sport.”</p><p>Her reaction is a curious thing. Her lips part wordlessly, and her expression spasms and then goes very carefully still. Besides Damar, Weyoun lets out a shrill noise that cannot quite be described as a giggle but is not exactly sharp enough to be a cackle. It is not a sound that has ever heralded anything <em>good </em>for Damar, and it triggers an immediate, conditioned response: cold irritation rushes through him like the eruption of an Andorian cryovolcano.</p><p>“What?<em>”</em> Damar finally snaps.</p><p>“It’s a <em> human </em>sport,” Ezri corrects. She manages to both frown and bite back a smile in the same instant – an expression unpleasantly reminiscent of the look a parent might wear when confronted with their child doing something especially dimwitted. “Who told you otherwise?”</p><p>He thinks back. He supposes nobody had ever outright told him it was a Vulcan leisure activity in as many words, but it had only been natural that he had assumed – “Are you familiar with Captain Solok?”</p><p>She makes a face like she’s just knocked back a double shot of Bajoran whiskey – the shitty kind, the hooch they used to confiscate from runners smuggling contraband into the labor camps. “<em>T</em><em>hat </em>asshole?”</p><p>It’s a mild insult, in the grand scheme of things, but it’s probably the most cutting thing Ezri’s ever said about someone, and Damar is startled by the vehemence laced through the words. Damar had rather liked the man. They’d worked together a few times after the war, and Damar had been impressed by his sharp intellect and his efficiency at his job. It also hadn’t hurt that he was attractive and, for a member of such a notoriously emotionless race, rather flirtatious – by Cardassian standards, at least. Damar shrugs. “I enjoyed his company.” He thinks back, adding, “I liked the game as well. There were so many rules – it was riveting. Trying to figure out how to play was more complicated than solving a Romulan puzzle box.”</p><p>Ezri accepts the explanation with a smile. “I suppose I can see why you’d like it,” she teases. “You’re a problem solver at heart, aren’t you?” A question seems to occur to her, and she looks at him. “Why did you never go into the sciences, Damar?”</p><p>It’s phrased innocently enough but it has roughly the same effect as a backhanded slap across the face, and Damar jerks back, staring at Ezri. If it were <em> anyone </em>else other than an alien asking him this it would be tantamount to a grave insult – a crude insinuation about his masculinity. But he cannot expect her to know better, so he swallows back the automatic rebuke. “It’s feminine,” he says. “My aptitude for the sciences is… unfortunate.”</p><p>She seems puzzled by his response, and her eyebrows knit together. “There are a disproportionate amount of women in the sciences – but I wasn’t aware men who gravitated to those fields were seen as more <em> feminine</em>. And… even if such professions <em> were </em>inherently feminine, is that really so shameful?”</p><p>He takes a measured breath, unclear of how to best explain it to her. He does not fault her for her ignorance – Cardassians are a private people, and she is an outsider here, hailing from a foreign world with its own unique cultural values and beliefs. “I imagine it is different on Trill,” he starts, for surely it must be – their strange relationships with their symbionts must mandate a fusion of gender that would be taboo to even contemplate on Cardassia. “But here, men and women each have their place. It is the order of things – tradition keeps our society strong and resilient.” He does not like that the words come out sounding rehearsed and hollow.</p><p>Weyoun makes a strange noise, a wheezing, aspirated sort of inhalation, as if attempting to choke back a giggle. Damar withdraws his hand – he had forgotten it was still there – and glares at him. Whatever Weyoun sees in Damar’s expression proves to be enough to shatter what remains of his composure. A shudder goes through him, and he lets out a full-bodied laugh, doubling over at the middle as if in physical pain. Damar glowers at him as Weyoun squeezes his own thighs, pushing himself back into an upright seated position and regaining enough control to cover his mouth with his hand.</p><p>“Oh <em> Damar</em>,” Weyoun says, lowering his hand to expose a faint smirk he has evidently been unsuccessful at entirely repressing. “How quaint. You Cardassians have always been so concerned about these odd little breakdowns along gendered lines. I’ve never understood it.”</p><p>“Of course not,” Damar hisses. “None of you ever tried to understand us, or our culture.”</p><p>Weyoun imitates a wounded expression, one offset by the lines of humor crinkling around his eyes. “Untrue!” he exclaims. “I’m deeply fascinated by alien cultures, in all their various forms and permutations.”</p><p>Across from Weyoun, Ezri is gazing at him, her face a careful mask of nearly-Vorta serenity. <em> Nearly</em>, but not quite – the humanoid eyebrows, Damar has begun to understand, are expressive things, and he has learned to watch them for the little signals of emotion they betray. Hers are now dipping ever-so-slightly together – just a small wrinkling over the nose, but enough to reveal the emotion she is diligently trying to hide. <em> Concern. </em></p><p>“Whatever you want to say to me, Ezri, say it,” he snaps.</p><p>He doesn’t think he has raised his voice with her before – at least, never seriously – and he regrets it immediately as that pristine composure disintegrates. She flashes him a wounded look – the more genuine counterpart to the expression Weyoun attempted earlier. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” she protests. She pauses, and sets her jaw, and her next words are steady. “As you said, I’m Trill - not Cardassian. It’s not my place.”</p><p>He hesitates. “Say what you want to say,” he tells her in a calmer voice.</p><p>Her words escape her in a rush. “Perhaps tradition is the problem,” she says. “From what I’ve seen so far, it seems to me like many Cardassians are eager to embrace change – and the rigidity of some of these traditions is holding them back.” She shakes her head, her mouth twisting, and does not elaborate further. </p><p>The awkwardness lingers after this, hanging heavy in the air like the scent of decay wafting off a rotting carcass. Weyoun steers the conversation towards less fraught topics - Ezri joining in gamely enough - but Damar finds himself only half-listening. Bits of their discussion float in and out of his awareness: a spirited argument comparing Rinn’Dosi dance-poetry to Klingon love ballads, gossip about Admiral Ross’s new wife, and some thought experiment involving a locomotive and six very slow-moving pedestrians (Ezri frets over her choices, Weyoun makes his alarmingly fast).  Damar participates when prodded for a response (“I am in unfortunate agreement with Weyoun, the ethical choice is to kill the one man to spare the five.”) but otherwise remains silent, and he finds himself relieved when Weyoun politely informs Ezri they have to leave.</p><p>Damar is not sure about the Founder, but he knows Kilana is being housed in one of the more luxurious suites in the embassy, intended for more illustrious guests. Those apartments are in the uppermost levels of the building, and it’s a long walk to reach them – one Weyoun does not interrupt with any attempts to engage him in conversation. Damar isn’t sure whether Weyoun’s unusual taciturnity is the result of the Vorta trying to give him the cold shoulder or an attempt to be considerate, but he chooses to interpret it as the latter. The silence, he decides, is rather comfortable. </p><p>Kilana’s quarters encompass almost an entire wing of her level of the northern complex. In addition to being much more spacious than the accommodations assigned to Ezri and Weyoun, they’re also under much more careful watch – a pair of guards is stationed outside of the entrance, perhaps to protect the Vorta, or perhaps to simply keep closer tabs on her movements throughout their facilities. They are both young men, barely out of boyhood, and their armor is polished to a dark sheen. He doubts they have ever worn it into battle before. The one on the left recognizes him first, and he blanches as he nudges his companion who is reclining lazily against the wall. The second guard’s eyes widen, and he straightens out of his slouch so fast his spine makes an audible <em> pop</em>.</p><p>“<em>Legate</em>,” they murmur, almost in tandem. They are not quite brave enough to meet his gaze, and they usher him and Weyoun in without question or even a cursory identification check. The entire ordeal is one massive breach of protocol, and Damar makes a mental note of it, filing it away for his next security briefing with Kell.</p><p>“I’m surprised they did not fall to their knees,” Weyoun breathes to him as soon as the doors have snapped shut behind them. The Vorta seems impressed, and his eyes shine in a hungry way that reminds Damar of the jackals that used to live in the desert outside his home province. They’d come into town at night – scrawny, devious things – and he’d often catch them skulking around his home, their eyes gleaming in the dark. He was never surprised if by the next morning, all that was left of his household pets were a scattering of picked-clean bones. There is nothing of the diplomat in Weyoun’s smile; it is all predator, all teeth. He has the look of an animal that has just scented fresh blood. “You have so much <em> power </em> here.”</p><p>Damar ignores him, and chooses to look around instead. They are still not at Kilana’s main quarters – <em>those </em>appear to be tucked away even further inside. This looks to be a waiting room of some sort; perhaps the architect was operating under the assumption visiting diplomats would enjoy the opportunity to lord their power over their guests by making them go through this endless maze of lobbies superimposed onto other lobbies. Rooms nestled in rooms nestled in rooms. He rolls his eyes. It is an exercise in redundancy. <em>T</em><em>his </em>particular room is almost entirely bare, although he suspects that is an aesthetic choice – one of the walls is made entirely of glass, exposing the luminous forcefield buzzing around outside, and the floors are stark white, with an opalescent glimmer. The only decorations are the shards of delicately-carved crystals that dangle from the ceiling like stalactites. It’s a bizarre design, and Damar feels as if he’s stepped foot into some alien ice-cave. Combined with some of the garish furniture in Weyoun and Ezri’s apartments, Damar decides that the interior decorators contracted by the embassy were given entirely too much free reign in their duties.</p><p>There is a door at the end of the room, eggshell white, and in front of it is a hulking Jem’Hadar who gives them a bored once-over as they approach. He has clearly been expecting them, and his posture is not aggressive, but something Damar’s stomach churns at the sight of him, and the center of his chest flares with old, phantom heat.</p><p>“We’re here for Kilana,” Weyoun tells him.</p><p>The Jem’Hadar looks down at him, impassive. “She thought you would be late.” His voice is the first rumble of thunder from an incoming storm. He examines Weyoun and adds, “She is still… with company.”</p><p>Weyoun’s lip curls. “Then go fetch her,” he suggests snidely. “I trust you’re capable of that much?”</p><p>The Jem’Hadar gazes down at him for another moment, and while Damar would not claim to be an expert in reading Jem’Hadar facial expressions it is apparent enough that the emotion that crests over his scaled features is <em> contempt. </em>Without a word he presses the palm of his hand to the door panel and slides inside, his dark, glittering eyes tracking Weyoun as he does.</p><p>Damar scowls at Weyoun. “Aren’t you supposed to be a diplomat? You seem to be much more proficient at making enemies than allies.”</p><p>Weyoun scoffs at this. “Enemy? That’s a rather complex concept to ascribe to the psychology of a Jem’Hadar.”</p><p>The Jem’Hadar’s facial expressions would seem to imply a different story, but Damar doesn’t have the opportunity to debate it further. The door opens again, and Kilana floats towards them, sensuality oozing off of her like pheromone excretions from a burrower slug, gesturing them into her living room with that practiced Vorta-smile she is so good at. She waves away the Jem’Hadar as they enter, and he stares at Weyoun as he passes them.</p><p>“Thank you, Sinan’Kara,” Kilana calls out. He gives her a curt nod in response before the doors snap shut again.</p><p>Damar’s nose twitches. There are too many warring scents: snakeleaf and jasmine perfume wash over him, clashing with the distinctive odor of sex. He makes the mistake of inhaling, and he immediately sneezes. Kilana pulls the gaze towards her like a magnet, and although he does not particularly want to, he finds he has no choice but to look. Her hair is askew and her eyes are smudged with kohl, and that perfect smile from before has grown disturbingly self-satisfied – reminiscent of a pet hara cat that’s just feasted upon the family wompat. A silk robe hangs loosely off her shoulders, and as she shifts languidly to lean against the door it opens slightly to display smooth, creamy skin. She is not Damar’s type, but he’s hardly blind – she is lovelier than most Vorta in a way that must certainly be intentional; she is a work of art – a testament to the Dominion’s skills of genetic engineering. Her pale limbs and the gentle slopes and curves of her body look as if they’ve been sculpted from marble, and the overall impression of her features is one of carefully mathematical symmetry and unobjectionable beauty, as if she was designed to be as broadly, cross-culturally appealing as possible. There is an implication buried in that – of what the Founders had in mind for her original role – which Damar would prefer not to contemplate. He does not especially like her, and he does not want to muddy the refreshing purity of his animosity with pity. He has suffered too many complex problems and emotions as of late. It is appealing to have something plain and comfortable like simple dislike to settle into.</p><p>Damar’s gaze wanders past her – to the opened, darkened bedroom beyond, and he catches a glimpse of the hedonistic evidence of the night before: rumpled sheets, scattered clothes, and three naked Cardassians sprawled in her bed – two men and a woman, their limbs overlapping and entwining in a tangle of flesh and scales.</p><p>“This is rather…” Weyoun trails off, waving a hand in the air as he searches for a suitably tactful word, “<em>brazen</em>.”</p><p>All Kilana offers in response is a shrug that causes her robe to slip further, displaying a bare, sweat-shimmering shoulder.</p><p>Weyoun blinks at her, and some silent communication seems to transfer between them, like the invisible networking of two data nodes. “You enjoyed yourself?” he asks, and his smile is caught somewhere between genuine fondness and salacious intent. His eyes are bright with a voyeuristic curiosity.</p><p>Kilana’s head tilts back as she laughs, revealing a throat speckled with lilac bruises and bite marks. “I couldn’t resist indulging in a little Cardassian… hospitality.” She winks at Damar, a gesture Damar fervently hopes he will never have to see from her again. “Your people have quite the reputation for xenophobia, but I’ve found in my own experiments that most of them simply need a gentle… guiding… hand, and then they tend to be very… accommodating.” Her lips, stained with smudged gloss, quirk into a secretive smile. In her bedroom, the pile of bodies is squirming, and Damar hears a soft exhalation followed by a needlessly breathy moan.</p><p>In Damar’s limited experience with the Vorta species, there does not appear to be any consistent attitude towards sexuality. Physical pleasure seems to be largely deemphasized – or, at least, they do not seem to be governed by the impulse to climax, as most species are – but it is growing apparent that despite the restrictions imposed on their biology by the Founders, Vorta are hardly chaste. Damar is still unclear on exactly how atypical his own relationship with Weyoun is – and Weyoun himself has always dodged the question – but he has never been presented with evidence that any sort of long-term intimacy is common, beyond what might be mandated by the Founders to secure an alliance or strengthen diplomatic ties. He wonders how much the Founders know or care of what their pets do in their leisure time. Are they too repulsed by the perversions of solids to contemplate these physical possibilities in any depth? Or do they just pretend their Vorta daintily keep their legs closed, until such a time as their cunt or cock becomes useful for a mission?</p><p>Other noises are beginning to emanate from the bedroom, and one of the men has wrapped a fist around the other man’s cock. Damar coughs pointedly, and Kilana raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to dismiss your guests?” he asks.</p><p>She smiles. “If that’s your preference, Legate.” She and Weyoun exchange a look, and her smile broadens.   </p><p>She retreats into the bedroom, and shortly after her visitors crawl out of the bed to collect their things. They’re dressed in armor when they file out – they’re all soldiers, even the woman, and with a weary dismay, Damar realizes he knows all three of them. They are guards assigned to this embassy - he recognizes their faces from his previous trips here. They shuffle out to the door, looking appropriately chagrined when they see him.</p><p>“Legate,” the woman mumbles. She raises a self-conscious hand to her neck, as if trying to cover over where the remnants of blue pigment are smeared along her ridges. This ushers in a muted chorus of <em> Legate </em> from the men, both of whom are hastily combing back their hair with their fingers. They look to him before they leave, waiting for permission, and he contemplates the option of sarcastically congratulating them for their efforts to make the Vorta ambassador feel so <em> welcomed</em>. But from the barely-repressed panic that emits off of them in waves, he has a feeling they’d interpret the jab as a threat to their careers more than a slightly mean-spirited joke at their expense. He decides on saying nothing at all, and dismisses them with a nod.</p><hr/><p>Kilana brews rippleberry tea imported from the Dominion, and Weyoun lights up as she pours his cup, leaning over to take a greedy inhale of the steam wafting up from the cobalt liquid.</p><p>Damar takes a careful sip of his as they settle around Kilana’s table. He is not sure exactly what he had expected – something overwhelmingly sweet perhaps, enough that even a Vorta would be able to register it – but the flavor is surprisingly subtle, with an exotic tartness that is unlike any fruit native to Cardassian soil.</p><p>“How are you, Kilana?” Weyoun asks eagerly. “It’s been too long. How is that plant specimen Kira gave you? Does it still sing? Are Yelgrun and Keevan still at each other’s throats? Did you finally manage to bring the Selkar into the fold?”</p><p>Kilana taps at the side of her cup and makes a face. “The Selkar? No. That particular initiative encountered a bit of a… hurdle.” She pauses. “Weyoun, how much have you been keeping with current events?”</p><p>He cocks his head to the side. “Why do you ask?”</p><p>Kilana gives him a thoughtful look.  “Do you remember those little spots of resistance that were beginning to flare up on the edges of Dominion space, before you left for this assignment?” He nods silently, and she continues, “They have begun to… evolve somewhat. And our counterintelligence divisions are no longer able to stymie the spread of rumors. It will not be long before every Dominion world knows of them.”        </p><p>Weyoun takes a large mouthful of the still-steaming tea, which strikes Damar as an excellent way to get back at his deadened taste buds by searing them off the second they get to experience true flavor for the first time in… who knows how long, and a very poor way to actually enjoy the beverage. He swallows it down without flinching, betraying no hint of discomfort. “Aside from you, the only other contact I’ve had from the Dominion since I’ve been on Cardassia was Borath,” he says. “And he didn’t mention any… stirrings of rebellion to me.”</p><p>“It’s more than <em> stirrings </em>now, Weyoun,” Kilana says, her nail circling the rim of her cup.</p><p>Weyoun seems to be growing impatient. He narrows his eyes, taking another gulp of the tea and then immediately asks, “Who are the participants? Which planets are involved?”</p><p><em> This </em>is a question Damar is especially keen to hear the answer to, and Kilana seems to sense this for she glances at him briefly. “Rinn’Dosi, Kendi III, what’s left of Vandros Prime… but those are all bit players, really.” She leans in closer and Damar quickly pulls back before the scent of her perfume can assault him again. “Beyond the opportunistic pillaging of few Rinn’Dosi would-be warlords, all of the resistance leaders have been Jem'Hadar… and Vorta.”</p><p>Weyoun recoils, his face contorting with acute revulsion, as if she’d just confessed to slipping raptor dung in his tea. “Impossible,” he hisses. “That is unthinkable.” He grimaces, turning away from Kilana as if he cannot stand to look at her any longer, fixing his gaze imploringly on Damar instead. “Such things have been known to happen with Jem’Hadar,” he says, and there is an undercurrent of tension in his voice. He sounds nearly desperate. “They are less inherently loyal than Vorta. That’s why the Founders saw fit to addict them to the White.”</p><p>Weyoun seems to be waiting for a response, but Damar does not know how to react to his strange distress, and he does not particularly want to console him by assuring him of the glory of service, or Vorta fidelity, to the Dominion. Weyoun eyes him for another moment, and then he schools his features into placidity as he turns his attentions back to Kilana. “I don’t believe you,” he tells her. “It is inconceivable that there would be anything beyond <em> incidental </em>disharmony among the Vorta.”     </p><p>Kilana tilts her head, examining him carefully. “Can you really not imagine any reason a Vorta might have to rebel, Weyoun? We aren’t androids. And our love for the Founders doesn’t always prevent <em> dissatisfaction </em> from taking root.” She smiles. “And you know as well as I do that there are <em> reasons </em> for a Vorta to be dissatisfied.” Her eyes flicker to Damar again, more pointedly than before; Weyoun follows her gaze, and for a second the color bleeds out of his already-pale features. He opens his mouth, but Kilana lifts a hand, stopping him before he can cut her off. “Such things have not happened on such a large scale before because for the last two thousand years – up until three and a half years ago – the Dominion had been an unstoppable force, crushing anyone who dared oppose it. But the war proved it could bleed, and our resources are taxed – we are not what we once were. We simply do not have the ability to chase down every lead, hunt down every resistance cell, purge every planet that teeters towards dissent. It is only reasonable that there would be those who would consider this an ideal chance to strike… Jem’Hadar <em> and </em>Vorta both.”  </p><p>“Defective Vorta, perhaps,” Weyoun sneers.</p><p>Kilana looks tired, and Damar thinks it might be the first truly genuine expression he has seen her wear. “These aren’t defective Vorta that are rebelling, Weyoun,” she sighs. “Although I’m sure many of them will be retroactively labeled as such.” She stares down at her untouched tea. “You were always so loyal Weyoun, but you’ve always turned a blind eye to things like this.”</p><p>Weyoun’s placid mask is beginning to falter. “You are beginning to sound almost sympathetic to these traitors, Kilana.”</p><p>She grins. “Oh Weyoun,” she says with feigned lightness. “This is my last life. What do I have to lose by being honest?”</p><p>“You <em> are </em>defective,” Weyoun snaps. “Perhaps that is the reason you are talking like this.”</p><p><em> Zhimata </em>must really mean sibling, Damar decides, because underneath the geopolitical ramifications of resistance in the Dominion, this feels exactly like an unpleasant family squabble that he has the misfortune of being thrust into the middle of. He shifts uneasily in his chair. This is actionable intelligence, at least – he should reach out to the Cardassian ambassador in the Dominion, and compare notes. He would be interested to learn exactly how wide-spread this resistance has become... assuming he can get in contact with her at all. The last report they’d received from her had been a terse missive detailing weather trends in the Solos sector. It had not been a secret among Central Command that Natima Lang’s impromptu assignment to the Gamma Quadrant was something of a soft exile – keeping her away from Cardassia, and her civilian supporters that had favored her reformist ideology over Kell.</p><p>“I’ve been loyal for three lifetimes. I’ve already proved myself to the Founders – I don’t have to prove myself to <em> you, </em>” Kilana is telling Weyoun sharply. They glare at each other, and her expression softens, her eyes dimming with a distant pain. “Weyoun,” she murmurs. “I’m not arguing for the righteousness of their cause. But it is foolish to pretend that they do not have legitimate grievances. The Vorta have received the greatest boons of the Founders generosity – they have made us the most powerful servants in the Dominion. But we have lost much as well.”</p><p>“There are always sacrifices made for the greater good,” Weyoun says, and Damar detects the faintest note of uncertainty marring the otherwise inflectionless words.</p><p> “Indeed.” Her eyes flickers to Damar, and he has the irrational fear that he has just been caught doing something horribly wrong. Her gaze lingers on him for a moment, and an unreadable expression dances within their depths. “There is much our people have been deprived of. Can you even imagine how other things taste, beyond <em> rippleberries </em> and <em> kava nuts </em>? Do you ever wonder how Damar would look, if your sense of aesthetics had not been taken from you? If you could see his eyes, as I do – you’d know they were as clear and lovely as a summer afternoon.” A smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “And that strapping Cardassian physique!”</p><p>“I appreciate enough,” Weyoun protests. </p><p>“I’m sure,” Kilana agrees. “And you have… appreciated… for a great deal longer than would be common. Even you, Weyoun, know what it is to <em> want </em>things beyond the scope of your obligations.”</p><p>“You have made your point, Kilana.” A muscle works in his jaw, and he forces a grin. “It is true that the Vorta have had to cast aside much to more appropriately serve the Founders. I suppose there are… more selfish Vorta who might object to that, ones less dutiful than you or I.”</p><p>Kilana inclines her head. “Then you see it clearly,” she says levelly, and Damar cannot interpret the look that briefly crosses her face before she smooths it back into perfect pleasantness.</p><p>“I do,” Weyoun says, and he relaxes visibly against his chair. “You had me worried for a moment, Kilana, but I take your meaning. We cannot let ourselves grow complacent, especially in these trying times. We must always be guarded against treason and… ingratitude.”</p><p>Kilana gives him a fond smile, which loses some of its sincerity as she turns it towards Damar. “Perhaps you should send an agent of your own into the Dominion,” she suggests sweetly. “I’m sure Natima Lang would enjoy the company of another Cardassian, no matter how briefly. And I’d be curious to hear what news they bring back as well. An outsider’s perspective is always… a unique one.” And here she finally lifts her cup of tea to her lips, and takes a delicate sip, her gaze trained on Damar’s. There’s a little bit of the jackal in her smile as her lips peel back, displaying porcelain-white teeth, and he thinks – for a second – that he might be starting to like her. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>if you're wondering, yea, Solok and Damar 100% banged. I refuse to apologize!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this chapter is also known as Difficult Conversations, Part 1 of 2</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For all of his adjunct’s careful precision and detail-oriented rigidity, her apartments are a <em> mess</em>. If there is any sign to be found of the perfectionist from work, it is certainly not readily apparent - although perhaps, he ruminates, side-stepping a pile of dirty laundry, it’s buried somewhere deep in these mounds of clutter. Perhaps she has to unearth that persona every day, digging it out like some sort of archeologist working on an excavation.</p><p>Data rods are strewn about haphazardly, with no evident rhyme or reason for their placement. The entire space is a hideous amalgam of overlapping disorder, chaos overlaid upon itself like knotted dunesnakes in heat. It is nearly as disorienting as the first time Damar had stepped aboard the conquered bird-of-prey, back during his tenure as Dukat’s Glinn. The ship had been a mess – clothes and phasers and remnants of food carelessly littered over floors stained with old, dried blood splatter. Miska’s apartment, he gratefully reflects, is at least free of that distinctive Klingon stench – the kind that only comes from having an entire crew of men and women violently brawling and violently rutting and obstinately refusing to shower. Dukat hadn’t seemed particularly concerned with it, but Damar had made scrubbing the bird-of-prey clean, from the hull to the distended command bulb, his first priority.</p><p>He makes a face as he treads around an unmade futon.  He spots shadows wavering on the wall and follows them, hoping he will find his adjunct at their source. He’s mistaken. Instead, there is a discarded, grimy little holo-projector displaying a grainy image onto the back of the futon. It’s a broken loop featuring part of a threesome: the centerpiece is a four-breasted alien with narrow features and see-through skin (either naturally translucent or simply poorly rendered). Blood, or maybe static from the rough quality of the image, flickers in purple veins underneath. One of her two attending lovers – a human – is kneeling between her legs, and he pulls his mouth from her crotch, revealing a thin, tapered cock that juts above a wet slit dripping with blueish fluid. The image stutters and then begins to replay and Damar shudders. This discovery has revealed entirely too much information about his adjunct’s private life – while Dukat used to take a perverse satisfaction in knowing such details about the personal preferences of the soldiers under his command, Damar would gladly have the last minute purged from his memory altogether. He warily toes the projector with his boot, and once he’s satisfied it’s not set to explode, he kicks it under the futon, sparing himself from the risk of accidentally seeing it again.</p><p>He finds Miska, at last, in her room, digging behind her bed through a pile of what he guesses – prays – is clean laundry. He releases the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and she jumps up, clutching a single boot.</p><p>“Is your place normally like this?” he asks.</p><p>She scowls, and stacks the boot besides the opened suitcase on her bed. “Give me a raise, and then maybe I can afford a maid.”</p><p>“Fair enough.” Damar is almost afraid to look – for fear of finding another pornographic holoimage, but he casts a quick glance around the room, his gaze lingering on the seemingly endless collection of clothes and data rods. Interestingly, despite what the clutter would otherwise indicate, there don’t appear to be any keepsakes or trinkets. The only decoration or personal touch is a circular painting inscribed with stylized, ancient Kardsi hieroglyphs that form spiraling rings of calligraphy. It looks like the sort of tacky souvenir an off-worlder would buy at a gift shop. “Can I help?”      </p><p>“Not really. I’m almost done.” She glances up at him. “I’ve briefed Saji on your itinerary for the next two weeks,” she says, balling up a shirt and shoving it into the growing bundle of clothes in her suitcase. “He’s a bit of a paranoid idiot, but he should serve you well enough in the short term.”</p><p>Damar laughs at this. “Wasn’t he once convinced Ajic tampered with the tea machine to restrict his access, after they broke up?”</p><p>Miska chuckles, reaching for a pair of socks. “I wouldn’t have put it past her. But it turned out he’d just kept forgetting he needed to reset it before hitting ‘start.’”</p><p>She struggles to zip up her bag, and Damar pauses, a question occurring to him. He toys with it before he speaks - it would not be an inappropriate thing to ask another Cardassian, but he does not want to inadvertently tread onto a sensitive subject. He hesitates again before he speaks, reframing it slightly, “Do you need to make any other arrangements? I can give you more time, if there’s anyone you want to see before you leave.”</p><p>She looks up at him and smirks. “You mean family?”</p><p>He doesn’t deny it, but he does add, “Or friends - or partners.”</p><p>She jerks back to her task, and shoves down the mountain of clothes with more violence than would be strictly necessary. She yanks up the zipper, closing it in a swift, angry motion. “My <em> father </em> loves me,” she says mockingly, tension working in the clenched lines of her jaw. “Or so he says. But he’s always been careful to keep me at an arm's length from his life, from his <em> other </em> children.” She lets out a bitter laugh. “And if you’re curious, my <em> Bajoran </em>family considers my very existence an abomination.” </p><p>He isn’t sure how to respond. <em> I’m sorry to hear that </em>seems woefully insufficient, enough to almost be insulting. “Miska,” Damar starts instead, aware he is now beginning to tread on dangerous territory. “I want to make sure you’re comfortable with keeping everything on this mission strictly confidential. It’ll just be between me and you. You won’t be filing any reports, or undergoing any debriefings beyond what you and I will privately discuss once you’ve returned.”</p><p>She rolls her eyes. “I was clear on <em> that </em>front when you started suggesting cover stories for my absence. You aren’t exactly a subtle man, Legate.”</p><p>He feels slightly chagrined by the explicit reminder of his ineptitude regarding any matters involving intrigue or delicacy. But it’s hardly a point he can protest. “I’m serious, Miska,” he presses on, “I might be asking you to do things that could be construed as… treasonous. With this as well as the ongoing situation concerning Kell.” He has finally named it aloud - the obscene thing they have both been dancing around: <em> treason</em>. It is the most repugnant of crimes on Cardassia, enough that the word <em> traitor </em>is considered an insult so crass that the use of it in civilized company is a severe faux-pas. Gloating to someone that their father begged you to fuck them like a woman is more polite, by several magnitudes.</p><p>Miska, however, does not appear remotely perturbed. She gives him a level look. “I couldn’t care less about betraying Central Command,” she says coolly. “They’re rapists and xenophobes. Fuck them all. I’m loyal to <em> you</em>, Damar.”</p><p>He frowns. “You never told me that was how you felt.”</p><p>She shrugs. “You never asked. Does it surprise you?”</p><p>Does it surprise him? Not especially, if he’s being honest with himself. The choice to select a half-Bajoran to be his adjunct had been met with resistance and snide remarks from day one, no matter that she’d been raised on Cardassia her whole life, no matter that her father is the esteemed Gul Evek. Even the most tactful of the naysayers had whispered that <em> mixed ancestry begets mixed loyalties. </em>He is ashamed that at one point in his life, he had shared those sentiments himself.  </p><p>His adjunct does not much remind him of Ziyal. She has none of Ziyal’s poise or delicacy - she is a blunt instrument of a woman, harsh features, hooded eyes, and a twice-broken nose that she has never bothered to fix. A thin scar snakes up from the corner of her mouth, giving her the appearance of a permanent sneer. Once, when she was very drunk, she had admitted to him that it had been the result of a mishap involving too many shots of kanar and a human game known as “darts,” but she had felt it made her look more intimidating and chose to keep it. He only rarely thinks of Ziyal when he is with her. He has little reason to - she does not exactly invite the comparison. But with old, stale regret, he finds he is forced to contemplate Ziyal now, and all the ugly ways he had failed her even before he had stolen her life.</p><p>“I understand,” he tells Miska. And he doesn’t, not really - because how can he ever fully understand what she’s undergone? But he does understand the reasons for her antipathy towards the military regime, and he shares many of them. “I appreciate your loyalty,” he adds. <em> To me </em> does not need to be uttered - his meaning is clear enough. </p><p>“You’ve earned it,” she says curtly. </p><p>They stare at each other, a little awkwardly. Damar has never considered himself particularly adept at goodbyes. He clears his throat. “I’ve spoken with Colonel Kira. She’ll let you through the mouth of the wormhole. I assume you’ve memorized the clearance codes we discussed?”</p><p>“Are you trying to insult me?” Miska asks, but she says it fondly. “I’m not an idiot.”</p><p>There’s a certain melancholy sweeping through him, and he finds it is difficult to force a smile, but he manages. He doubts it is an especially pretty sight, but Miska only offers back a quick smile of her own. “No. There’s a reason it’s not Saji going on this mission.” He pauses. “Safe travels, Miska.”</p><hr/><p>He spies Weyoun jogging after him on his way to work, wearing a broad grin that Damar knows will either spell good news or bad news for him, and absolutely nothing in between. Weyoun catches up to him, and Damar slows his pace to allow the Vorta to fall into step beside him. His office is now directly ahead, and he has a suspicion this conversation is one he’d rather not rush.</p><p>“Good news!” Weyoun exclaims cheerily, albeit a little breathlessly. He lowers his voice to a hushed whisper that Damar has to strain to hear. He’ll have to remind Weyoun that Cardassian ears are rather less sensitive than those infernally well-honed Vorta ones, he thinks sourly. “Our two agents have been successfully insinuated within the Tal Shiar,” he begins, darting his eyes around and doing a poor job of hiding his gleeful smile. Of <em> course </em>he’s enjoying himself – Weyoun thrives off the same complicated political machinations and strategic maneuverings that Damar has always found so incomprehensible.</p><p>“And?” Damar presses. </p><p>Weyoun feigns outrage, and places a hand against his chest. “You wound me, Damar! That alone should be cause for celebration!” He grins, too enamored with his own cleverness to be able to imitate phony sorrow for long. It’s strangely adorable, and Damar represses a smile of his own at the sight of it. Weyoun’s smile fades as they approach the office, and he quickly returns his voice to a quieter pitch. “Communication has been… understandably limited, but I did receive an encrypted message earlier this morning.” There is a pregnant pause that Weyoun lets linger far longer than necessary. He stares expectantly at Damar, clearly waiting for him to grab at the bait being dangled in front of him.</p><p>Damar rolls his eyes. “<em>Fine</em>,” he hisses under his breath. “What did it say?”</p><p>His need for drama now sufficiently satiated, Weyoun finally acquiesces. “Things are taking shape on Cardassia.” He glances at Damar. “And that <em> is </em>a direct quote, before you demand elaboration.”</p><hr/><p>They meet up with Saji in the main lobby of their office. His temporary adjunct already looks frazzled, and he clutches Miska’s PADD in his hands like it’s a life raft. As soon as he spots Damar, his eyes go wide with relief and he hurries to his side, elbowing Weyoun out of the way in his haste. The Vorta’s face hardens and he shoots Saji a dangerous look that the man misses completely, blissfully ignorant. Damar makes a mental note to monitor this – whatever petty pranks Ajic might be willing to play on Saji pale in comparison to what he knows Weyoun is capable of when he’s in a particularly spiteful mood. He doesn’t <em> think </em>Weyoun would be as foolish as to risk the Cardassian-Dominion relations over an office squabble, but he’d rather be safe than sorry in all matters concerning the Vorta.</p><p>“Legate,” Saji mumbles.</p><p>With a sigh, Damar faces him. Saji’s shoulders hunch until he’s almost eye-level with Damar, but he shies away from meeting his gaze directly. If he straightened, he’d probably dwarf Damar – he cuts an imposing figure, judging purely by musculature and height, and from what Damar’s seen of his service record, those traits had convinced Central Command to place him on combat duty for several years, overlooking the lengthy section in his psychographic profile that deemed him unsuitable for such roles.</p><p>“What is it?” Damar asks.</p><p>He hadn’t thought he sounded especially harsh, but Saji flinches back from him, and then glances quickly to the far side of the room, where an armored, unfamiliar, Cardassian is glowering at them. Loudly, Saji says, “Legate Damar, this is Gul-” he breaks off mid-sentence, “I’m sorry, <em> what </em>did you say your name was again?”</p><p>The Gul gives Saji a dark look. “Mezat,” he sneers, managing to imbue those two syllables with more menace than Damar would’ve thought possible.</p><p>Saji gives him a tight smile, and then turns back to Damar, lowering his voice. “He’s not on the <em> schedule</em>,” he says, quickly scrolling through Miska’s PADD. “But he <em> says </em> he set up a tour of the facilities. Has Miska left yet? Maybe she can sort this out. Where did she say she was <em> going</em>, anyway?”</p><p>“Vacation,” Damar says crisply. “And a well-deserved one at that.” He grimaces. “Just… give him what he needs. Keep him away from any consoles he doesn’t have authorization to access.” If he’s lucky, Ezri will arrive soon to help him deal with this nuisance in the shape of an especially irate gul. He doesn’t recall exactly when her meeting with Kira – in a formal capacity this time, instead of as wives – was supposed to end, if she’d told him at all, but her presence might help rush Mezat out the door. By Cardassian standards she’s distressingly alien and disturbingly androgynous – setting her loose on Mezat might make him reconsider poking around longer than necessary.</p><p>Saji nods miserably, and Damar squashes the sudden impulse to give him a reassuring pat on the back. He’s fairly certain that Saji’s nerves are wound tightly enough that he’s liable to interpret any unexpected physical contact as an attack. He offers thumbs up instead – a human gesticulation he’s seen a handful of times – but Saji only stares blankly at the gesture.</p><hr/><p>“What was <em> that </em> about?” Weyoun asks him, once they are in Damar’s office, and safely out of earshot. “I haven’t heard of a Gul Mezat before, and I’ve made a point to learn the names of all the high ranking officers assigned to Cardassia Prime.”</p><p>Damar shrugs, and reclines against a console, lazily activating the machine. The monitor blinks to life, green light spilling across the room. “Maybe he was recently promoted, or reassigned here.”</p><p>Weyoun looks doubtful. “You aren’t at all concerned? He might be from Intelligence.”</p><p>Damar flicks through his messages. “He won’t find anything compromising.”</p><p>“Why does that pessimistic imagination of yours always seem to disappear whenever it would actually be <em> warranted</em>?” Weyoun moans.</p><p>Buried in his overflowing inbox is a message from Gilora Rejal, pronouncing the orbital arrays to be viable, and he taps out a brief response. “Sorry to disappoint,” he says distractedly. He sends it off, and twists back to Weyoun. “What I’m <em> currently </em>paranoid about, Weyoun, is that you’re going to do something vindictive to Saji.”</p><p>Weyoun scoffs. “<em>Saji</em>? What possible motivation would I have to do that?”</p><p>“I saw the look you gave him!” Damar protests. “Don’t try to pretend you weren’t thinking of it – I know you better than that.” </p><p>Weyoun doesn’t argue further. His lips curl into a wicked smile. “If I <em> really </em> wanted to get back at Saji for something,” he says, his tone somewhere between playfully mischievous and outright malicious, “The <em> intelligent </em>thing would be to do nothing at all. Just… allow my facial features to betray a certain implication to him. He’s even more paranoid than you are, Damar – his mind would do the rest far better than I ever could.”</p><p>Damar attempts to stifle a snort. He is unsuccessful. “Poor Saji,” he chuckles. “Definitely don’t do anything, Weyoun. The man can’t take any more stress, not with his new assignments so closely following the infamous tea machine incident.”</p><p>Weyoun holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Certainly not! I’m not <em> cruel</em>. You know, Ezri said he mentioned his parents have a home on Deneva – if you ask me, I think he was jealous Miska got to take a vacation first.” He pauses. “I believe the word he used was ‘decompress.’”</p><p>Damar laughs. “We all deserve a chance to decompress, once this is all said and done. And what about you? Any vacation plans in the Alpha Quadrant? Or just back to your own home?”  </p><p>Weyoun gives him a bemused look. “We have no home, Damar.”</p><p>It takes Damar a moment to process his words, and he stares at Weyoun, waiting for him to burst into mocking laughter at Damar’s gullibility. Instead, the Vorta only offers a placid smile, and Damar realizes he may actually be serious. “That’s not possible,” he says slowly. “You weren’t engineered from molecular scratch. You told me yourself your people had a homeworld, before the Founders came.”</p><p>“We have an ancestral homeworld,” Weyoun agrees. “But no modern Vorta has ever set foot there.” He wears a look of cool mildness, as if the subject they are discussing is one of vague academic interest, as opposed to one of the fundamental tenets of sentient life. “We live on all planets in the Dominion, on the great fleets, and a rare, select few even have the honor of serving the Great Link itself. But our ancestral planet – that place is no longer…suitable… for what we have evolved into.”</p><p>Damar tries to scrub the concern off of his expression. He knows Weyoun does not tolerate pity often, and especially not in circumstances regarding his place in the Dominion. In a low voice he asks, “So you have no home? At all?” This is anathema to him – <em> home </em>is everything to Cardassians: their world, their fatherland – it is the source of their pride, their dreams, their hope. It is both their parent and their child, something to nurture them and also something to be nurtured and cherished in return. Their world is their collective identity – without it they would be adrift, shattered. He has no mental framework, no cognitive heuristics by which to comprehend the Vorta existence. He can only imagine it as lonely… and untethered.</p><p>“The entire Dominion is my home,” Weyoun states, in a way that makes it clear this is a line fed to him by a Founder. His features briefly transform as a flicker of emotion materializes and then almost immediately dissolves – there and gone too swiftly for Damar to properly interpret it. “And what of <em> you</em>, Damar?” he asks, shifting the focus of the conversation with that unctuous Vorta charm he knows Damar despises. Perhaps seeing the look on Damar’s face, he makes a point to modulate his next words, removing some of the oily insincerity. “Tell me about your home.”</p><p>“And bore you with details you already know?” Damar asks sarcastically.             </p><p>Weyoun doesn’t have the decency to look embarrassed, and Damar wonders if he’s truly capable of that emotion or if it was one of the many things bred out of the Vorta species by the Founders. Weyoun has displayed a limited capacity for shame in the past, but more often than not that emotion was merely worn as a calculated mask to feign apology, or distract from other, more nefarious plots. </p><p>“Of course I know, Damar,” he says smoothly, managing to make it sound as if he’s disappointed in <em> Damar </em>for the question. “I was the aide between the Dominion and Cardassia, after all. The psychographic profiles of every major player were required reading.” He pauses. “But facts from a data rod aren’t always the same as understanding. And you’ve never mentioned your family before.”</p><p>Damar shrugs. “What’s to say? We aren’t close.”</p><p>“Three brothers, one sister, one father, one mother - all still alive.” Weyoun counts them on his fingers as he lists them off. “Ten nieces and nephews in total.”</p><p>“Eleven now,” Damar mutters. He had recently found out - belatedly - that his eldest brother’s wife had given birth to another son. “Your psychographic profiles are out of date.”</p><p>Weyoun raises an eyebrow. “I’m sure Dominion intelligence is still keeping tabs as necessary. But the last time I saw yours was before I left on this assignment. I hope you don’t think of it as <em> invasive </em>- it was mandatory for the briefing.” He trails off, and seems to search for his next words. “I’m just… curious. Familial engagement and devotion is one of the core tenants of Cardassian society.” </p><p>Damar can’t help but laugh. “You sound like you’re reading that from a textbook!” he chortles. “So formal.” </p><p>Weyoun’s cheeks become tinged with a faint pinkness, in the way he has noticed Ezri’s do when she’s embarrassed, and he reconsiders his earlier hypothesis on the existence, or lack thereof, of that emotion in the Vorta species. </p><p>“Yes,” Damar says after he has suppressed his amusement. “It’s important to us. But… not everyone has the luxury of a perfect family, Cardassian values or no.” Weyoun stares at him, clearly waiting for additional elaboration, and with a sigh Damar relents. “My father was a Glinn in the military. I rarely saw him. And between my mother’s job as a technician and all my other siblings vying for her attention, I barely saw much more of <em> her </em>than him.”</p><p>“What were you like as a child?” Weyoun asks curiously. “I can’t picture it.”</p><p>“Obedient,” Damar answers immediately. He had always been the perfect son, faultlessly intuiting his parents’ wishes. Unlike his siblings, he had rarely needed to be disciplined. He looks past Weyoun as he continues, “In hindsight, this largely meant I was overlooked.”</p><p>Weyoun frowns. “From what I know of effective child-rearing, that approach doesn’t sound conducive to healthy development.”</p><p>“It is what it is,” Damar says. “I’m just not close with them. They’re like strangers to me.” This fact had bothered him more when he was younger, and eager to prove himself as a worthy Cardassian man, embodying all the traditional values and ideals of his people. He had half of it down – his family was indeed impressively large, but he didn’t share any of the typical closeness or warmth with them that his fellow soldiers did with theirs. He had envied that bond, and the seemingly easy connection they had enjoyed with their parents and siblings. He’s not sure exactly when that jealous resentment had started to fade, but it had, eventually, cooling and settling into a distant bitterness.   </p><p>He feels a flush of radiating warmth at his side, like the kiss of desert sunshine, and he realizes Weyoun has migrated closer towards him, only a hair’s distance away from his body. “It seems you’ve survived adequately without a home,” he says.</p><p>Damar blinks down at him, disoriented by the sudden, tantalizing closeness that he is sorely tempted to bridge completely. He stares at Weyoun’s lips, and has to drag his gaze away. Looking into his eyes instead – violet and luminescent like an ionic storm – does not prove much more helpful, but he manages to gather his bearings.</p><p>“I still had Cardassia,” he says, trying to organize his thoughts into a semblance of coherency. “And I think, in retrospect, it would’ve been better if my world hadn’t been <em> all </em>I’d had.” He looks at Weyoun, and allows his hand to stretch out, cupping his cheek. He runs a thumb along the skin, enjoying the sensation of warmth and smoothness. “I am sorry,” he tells him, “that you didn’t even have that.” </p><p>Weyoun makes a strange, almost strangled noise, and leans into Damar’s hand, his eyes drifting closed. “Kiss me,” he says.</p><p>It is not quite a demand, not quite a request, but either way, Damar has no intentions of refusing. He lowers his head, and their lips meet almost tentatively, and then Weyoun’s lips are parting, allowing Damar’s tongue to slip inside. The scent of the Vorta invades him, and his free hand – possessed of a mind of its own, wanders down the soft, unridged side of Weyoun’s neck, coaxing out a low moan, even as his other hand continues to caress his cheek.      </p><p>“<em>Weyoun.</em>” The sound reverberates from the corner of the room, as blistering cold as creeping frostbite on an exposed limb, and Damar and Weyoun startle apart. It is Mezat – the gul stares at both of them from the shadows, his eyes glittering unnaturally in the green glow piercing the darkness. Beside him, Weyoun’s eyes are wide and glassy with an animal dread – a deeply atypical expression – and the sight of the Vorta’s composed demeanor so undone sends a shockwave of equal terror through Damar.     </p><p>“What are you doing here?” Damar snaps, trying to inject as much command into his voice as his rank warrants. His heart races as panic floods through him, and adrenaline shoots into every autonomic pathway of his nervous system. His mind has already begun to rapidly devise his strategy, in the event this conduct of his is reported. Accusations of xenophilia – with a <em>Vorta </em>nonetheless – might normally spell catastrophe, but he is a Legate, and that title carries certain privileges other, lower ranking Cardassians would not be able to enjoy. There is no <em>proof </em>of romantic intimacy – all Mezat has seen is a Legate taking pleasure from a compliant alien, no different than the Bajoran comfort women Dukat used to be so fond of.</p><p>He forces himself to relax, trying to will jittery, adrenaline-saturated muscles into stillness. Now more lucid, another thought – more pressing – occurs to him. “How did you get in here at all? The doors are sealed. Who gave you access?”</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Weyoun take a tentative step forward, and then the Vorta does something that turns his blood to ice. He bows to Mezat, his arms outstretched like the wings of a bird, his posture open and submissive. “<em>Founder,</em>” he breathes, his voice trembling. </p><p>Before them, Mezat’s form warbles, his skin melting like heated wax as the ridges and scales of his Cardassian form dissolve into featurelessness before he begins to reshape himself. The body pulls into itself, becoming slender as soft, womanly curves ripple into existence; his sleek, militant uniform lightens and smooths, transforming into a long white dress that clings to the new contours of his – Damar blinks twice, reorganizing his thoughts – no, <em> her </em>, body. The Founder looks like an alien now, but no alien Damar could categorize. She does not resemble the Founder Leader, aping Odo. Her skin has a sun-kissed translucency to it, and it dances with color, like the stained glass rooftops of the ancient Hebitian temples. She is beautiful in the same discordant, unnatural way an oil slick spread across an ocean might be beautiful.</p><p>He eyes the Founder warily, in the same way he might regard a feral riding hound, but she ignores him. Her attention is fixed entirely on Weyoun, and her crystalline eyes shine brightly as she regards her slave.</p><p>Damar takes a cautious step forward, discomforted by the intensity of her gaze and Weyoun’s worshipful, terrified silence. He’s not sure what he intends to do – to interject on behalf of a servant to their so-called god seems ill-advised – but he jerks his chin down in a quick, respectful nod. However much the sight of the changeling might sicken him, she is still a guest of Cardassia, and owed at least the bare minimum of their courtesies.</p><p>“Can I assist you, Founder?” he asks. The memories of the former Founder Leader surge to the forefront of his mind, and he swiftly pushes them back before they can daze him with fear. It is different this time, he reminds himself. The Dominion is not the power it once was, and the Founders are no longer his masters. <em> His </em>unfortunately being the operative word. He risks a glance at Weyoun.</p><p>The Founder peels her gaze from Weyoun. “Assist me?” she asks. “Like you assisted Weyoun? I think not.” She lets out a humorless laugh that is jarringly melodic, as high and light as a wind chime. A silver, iridescent lip curls up in a convincing impersonation of a Cardassian sneer. “You solids truly are a strange collection of perversions.” She adopts a look of benevolent, patronizing concern as she turns her gaze to Weyoun. “Do you imagine this is affection?” she asks gently. “Connection? Or even love?” She shakes her head. Weyoun does not respond. He is still frozen, his arms wide and his head bent stiffly in deference, the neck crooked awkwardly, like a hanged man dangling from a noose.</p><p>“Poor Vorta,” the Founder continues, a note of sorrow entering her voice – reflecting the sort of abstract pity you might feel for an injured animal left to die on the side of the road. “Perhaps this is motivated by some vestigial impulse. You were not meant to experience these feelings. We designed you to exist without the biological imperative for reproduction, without the mating urge.” She smiles, and behind her lips her teeth are as thin and sharp as needles. Damar shivers at the sight of them. “This was done out of kindness, to protect your species. You are so fragile, and solids suffer so much in their feeble attempts to achieve even a small measure of the connection the Link provides.”</p><p>A bitter laugh tries to claw its way out of Damar’s throat, and he clenches his jaw to stifle the impulse. If he hadn’t already suspected as much, this would be supreme proof of the Founders’ cold obliviousness to their own slaves. They may have mutilated the biology of the Vorta – carving away their sense of aesthetics, removing any urgency for physical release – but individual Vorta have still found their own ways to enjoy sex, to seek out companionship. This patronizing sympathy from the Founder is all the more disgusting paired against the knowledge that the Vorta’s self-proclaimed deities have no issue demanding their pets spread their legs in service to the state. Where would the Founder’s faux-tenderness be if she thought offering up Weyoun or Kilana to some alien diplomat would be advantageous to her cause? But, of course, an act of rape would not bring with it the same dangers as a relationship.</p><p>Weyoun dips his head down even further, and his hands finally move, clasping in front of his heart. “Your wisdom, Founder, is most illuminating.”</p><p>The Founder glides past him, continuing to ignore Damar’s presence. “You must understand,” she murmurs. “We have gifted the Vorta with the truest love a solid can experience – the love for us, your gods. Do not dilute this contentment by sampling… lesser pleasures for long.” She heaves a sigh. “This is disappointing - although not terribly surprising. But I suppose your attempts to facilitate the bond between Cardassia and the Dominion have been successful. Perhaps we can revisit this subject when I return.”</p><p>Weyoun forces a mechanical smile. “Return, Founder? Will you not be staying on Cardassia?”</p><p>“My plans should not be your concern, Weyoun,” she says dismissively. He murmurs a quick apology, and she regards him with an unreadable expression. “Legate Kell is adamant that I tour the planet, and observe the Cardassian reconstruction effort.”</p><p>Weyoun’s eyes still shine with a dull nervousness, but the smile he flashes now is less obviously false than before, and he easily falls back into the aimless rhythm of banal chatter. “I’m sure the Cardassians are excited to showcase their accomplishments from the past few years. They are a proud race, after all.”</p><p>“Needlessly so,” the Founder muses. “I have seen little to be impressed with so far. I suspect this is a poorly disguised attempt to elicit an emotional response – perhaps <em> guilt.</em> Such a smothering, humanoid preoccupation. If nothing else, they have my pity, for that lamentable impulse alone.”</p><p>Cold anger seethes inside of Damar, and his skin prickles as that rage sweeps through him, the self-sabotaging impulse to act on it pulsing through his body, insisting he not allow the Founder’s insult to go unchallenged. Fortunately, he has long ago become an expert on suppressing maladaptive emotional responses. He takes a practiced inhale, and holds the breath for a long second before releasing. <em> Fuck the Founder.</em></p><p>“If there is anything we can do to assist you,” Damar says curtly. “Do not hesitate to ask.”</p><p>The Founder regards him with condescending amusement, as if he’s a pet wompat that just twisted its paw attempting a trick. “Kell has been meeting my needs adequately. But I do appreciate your hospitality in opening your offices to me. Seeing the inner workings of your facilities proved quite illuminating.”</p><p>“In the future, Founder, perhaps you should identify yourself,” he suggests tightly. “I assure you, we would’ve made a much greater effort to be welcoming, if we had known we were being graced by a leader of the Dominion.” The words come out too clipped, bordering dangerously on outright disrespect and Weyoun intakes a sharp breath as he snaps his head in Damar’s direction, looking aghast.</p><p>The Founder, by contrast, does not seem inclined to lower herself to being offended by a mere solid. She merely offers a cool smile, and this time the teeth that flash behind her lips are even and square. Her eyes sparkle like diamonds. “Do not worry, Legate. I do not anticipate there being a next time. I have seen what I need to.”     </p><hr/><p>Weyoun avoids him for the rest of the day, and refuses all overtures at conversation. He slips out of the office earlier than usual, disappearing when Damar is distracted by an incoming budgetary revision.</p><p>Damar leaves not long after, and spends the next few hours alternating between pacing around his apartment and trying to distract himself with the latest shipment of Trill engineering manuals Ezri gifted him with. He gives up not long after sunset, and marches over to the embassy – determined to have a discussion with Weyoun… or at the least, force him to acknowledge his existence.    </p><p>The door to his quarters is unlocked, as if Weyoun has been expecting him – and it is not precisely an invitation, but Damar decides to take it as one and step inside. It’s dark in his apartments, and for a second Damar wonders if the Vorta is here at all – if he’s retreated to the Founder’s side, or perhaps sought out Kilana or Ezri for companionship – but then violet eyes blink out at him from the gloom, and Weyoun snaps out “Lights.” He glowers at Damar from his place on the sofa. “What do you want?”</p><p>“To talk to you,” Damar snaps back. “You’ve been avoiding me.”</p><p>Weyoun shrugs. His lips compress, and he stays silent.</p><p>Damar scowls at him. “I know what the Founder said unsettled you.”</p><p>Weyoun lets out a high-pitched, ringing laugh. “You are <em> so </em>intuitive, Damar!” In a burst of motion, he jumps up from the couch and lunges forward. “The Founder imparted their wisdom. And they are right.” He sneers. “This was a mistake.”</p><p>He moves to turn around, and Damar reaches out for his arm, spinning him back to face him. “Do you really believe that?”  </p><p>“It was foolish of us,” Weyoun hisses. He squirms in Damar’s grip, his eyes wild and unfocused, and Damar abruptly drops his arm. “Foolish of me. I know better. I let this advance past just <em> fucking.</em> And now the Founder...” he shudders. “The Founder was right. What we share is a wasteful, useless thing – and it will not last. And it will mean nothing, in the end. Compared to the Link - ” He breaks off with a shaky, gasping breath, and then stills. It is almost beautiful, observing Weyoun reshape his expressions – it is akin to watching a lump of clay somehow manage to sculpt itself. His features go studiously blank, and then he summons a smile into existence, pulls his eyebrows slightly up in benign interest, and lets the skin around his eyes crinkle pleasantly. The whole process takes perhaps a second.</p><p>“Weyoun,” Damar tries. “What do <em> you </em>actually want?”</p><p>Weyoun deflects the question with a luminous smile, his serene façade unmarred. “What I want is a matter of little circumstance. What I <em> must </em>do is trust in the wisdom of my god.”</p><p>It has been a long, stressful day, and by this point Damar’s nerves are utterly shot. A single, fraying thread of willpower is currently all that’s tethering him to sanity. He cannot help the horrible, wheezing laugh that emerges from deep in his chest (and if he is being honest with himself, he does not make any sort of concerted effort to stop it). “God?” he cackles. “And <em> what </em>a god she was. I particularly liked the part where your god decided to fuck with Saji by pretending to have made an appointment.”</p><p>This barb finally manages to crack the hastily applied shell of Weyoun’s eerie calm. “Of course you struggle to conceptualize them as Gods,” he says sharply, features taut with frustration. He sucks in a quick breath, but is unsuccessful at wiping his expression clean of revealing emotion for a second time. “You have only seen them in their humanoid forms,” he says. “If you had seen them in all their radiance – as I have – you would surely not doubt their divinity.” A look of grotesque rapture spreads over him. “The first Weyoun witnessed a Founder dissolve into a shower of light. They were dazzling and golden – beyond description.” He shivers. “I wish you could understand.”</p><p>“I’ve seen fireworks,” Damar says dryly, because he can’t understand, and he because he doesn’t particularly wish to. “They suspended them during the war, but the next city over likes to put on some pretty showy demonstrations. Visually impressive, but I certainly wouldn’t drop to my knees in worship if I met someone that could turn into one.”</p><p>The look of frustration on Weyoun’s face softens, briefly, into a helpless expression. “It is different for Vorta,” he explains. “What is a god but a creator?” He looks pained. “We are only deluding ourselves,” he murmurs. “The Founder is wise. Whatever we think we share is nothing but a pale, limited imitation of the Link. In the end all we will ever amount to is two beings, blindly grasping around in the dark, trying to anchor ourselves to a semblance of momentary stability.”</p><p>Personally, Damar finds Weyoun’s metaphor – of two individuals reaching out to each other in the dark - to be rather unintentionally romantic. Faint heat begins to blossom along the ridges of his neck. “What’s wrong with that?” he asks. “Perhaps it’s blind and imperfect and limited, but so what? I’m not a Founder. I’ll never experience what it’s like to be linked. But as a Cardassian, and not a Klingon, I’ll never experience that violent love they call par’Mach and write endless songs about. I’ve never shed any tears about that – we make the most of what we have to offer.”</p><p>“What I feel for you,” Weyoun says, “is not what I feel for the Founders. It is not nearly as – uncomplicated… or pure.”</p><p>“I don’t want you to feel that for me,” Damar says. The notion of it repulses him. “I don’t want your devotion, Weyoun.”</p><p>“What do you want, Corat?” Weyoun’s voice always gentles when he says Damar’s first name. This time his voice curves carefully around each syllable, as if it is a prayer from a forgotten language.</p><p>“I want this,” Damar says honestly. “I want to continue what we have. I want to see where it goes.”  </p><p>Weyoun eyes him thoughtfully, clearly tempted. “The Founder….” He says it almost imploringly, as if begging for an excuse, a rationalization.</p><p>Damar is only too happy to provide him with one. “The Founder never gave you an order,” he reminds him. He can’t resist the faint smirk that tugs at his upper lip. “And if this really does just pale in comparison to the Link, then there is no risk to the Dominion.” He draws in a breath, weighing his next words carefully. He is unsure how Weyoun will respond to them – at worst, they could be taken as potentially treasonous, but he is willing to risk it, if for nothing else than out of spite for the Founder and her patronizing sneer. “Wouldn’t it be better if she didn’t know at all?” he asks. “Why concern her with such… trivial details?”</p><p>Weyoun licks his lips as he weighs the merits of Damar’s argument. For all his genetically-engineered worship of the Founders, he has occasionally displayed a willingness to subvert their decrees via loopholes or technicalities – a memory arises from a lifetime ago, of Damar convincing Weyoun of the logic of letting Odo die along with Weyoun 6. It had not proved especially difficult. <em> Odo doesn’t even consider himself a Founder, </em>Weyoun 7 had murmured. Although it had been one of the last times Weyoun had deferred to Damar’s judgment during the war effort, it had certainly been the most memorable. Damar had held onto a sliver of hope, then, that Weyoun’s readiness to defy the will of the Founders would be a recurring theme. Instead, it had proved to be a one-off phenomenon, as singular and mesmerizing and doomed as the radiative flare of stardust from a swallowed sun.    </p><p>“You’re right,” Weyoun says at last. He smiles. “Why concern them with such… solid preoccupations?”</p><p>Damar grins back at him, buzzing and warm with the thrill of triumph. “Exactly right,” he says, and reaches out for Weyoun’s hand. </p><p>Weyoun accepts the gesture, and laces his fingers through Damar’s. “Perhaps,” he says idly, “you should show me those fireworks you mentioned. I would very much like to see them.”  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Weyoun: PLEASE give me an excuse to ignore the Founder, no matter how flimsy i am GAME</p><p>also Weyoun: how dare you be rude to my god whom i love and adore</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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